


Microagressions: A Star Wars Story or Inter(planetary)sectionality

by notfromcold



Series: Inherited a Fight [1]
Category: Rogue One: A Star Wars Story (2016), Star Wars - All Media Types
Genre: Ableism, Bodhi Rook is smooth af, Cassian Andor Backstory, Cassian is caffeinated for your protection, Chronic Pain, Disability, Draven protects his people, Hospitals, I'm so sorry, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Injury, M/M, Microagressions, PTSD, QT-9 service droids, Racism, Spy Stuff, Star Wars is mostly about intergenerational trauma, Trauma, and their enthusiastic refutation, caf caf and more caf, can I add caf as a character in this fanfic, fetishization of POC, implied/referenced child endangerment, really horrible ableism, service animals or .... well, service droids, sometimes remembering your childhood is about finding the bits you want to keep, unhelpful and fucked up notions of brokenness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-28
Updated: 2017-03-28
Packaged: 2018-10-12 00:58:50
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,595
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10478490
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/notfromcold/pseuds/notfromcold
Summary: Cassian has been recruiting for the Rebellion for a long time. Sometimes it gets frustrating. Five times he encountered microagressions and one time he didn't.I will not vaguebook about microagressions via fanfic.I will not vaguebook about microagressions via fanfic.I will not write allegories so obvious that C.S. Lewis would be ashamed of me.I will not …Fuck it. I just did both of those things.Here's a fanfic.





	

**Author's Note:**

> CW: This fic contains discussion of the extremely fucked up notion that people with physical/mental disabilities don't have lives that are worth living. That notion is bullshit and is pretty soundly shut down and destroyed by characters in the fic. But I thought I should warn for it because as a disabled person it's a trigger for me (which is honestly why I'm writing angrily about it).
> 
> I also understand that microagressions are a tough subject for some folks. - particularly folks with social anxiety. We all internalize the effects of this oppressive system and it can be really stressful to know that you will at some point probably say something that reinforces the oppression another person is facing. I tried to make it clear that everyone fucks up. We are all gonna engage in microagressions. That's just how life works. Ideally, we can own our shit, take responsibility for the times we hurt people, learn, and do better.

**1\. The Strategist**

Cassian was glad that Edvald Tlithe ran a safehouse for rebels on Coruscant. He was glad that he'd gotten a chance to rest his battered body in a proper bed for the night (the mission had _not_ gone well). He was glad that Edvald insisted on feeding his rebel guests breakfast. He was glad that breakfast included caf.

Really, he was so very glad that breakfast included caf.

He didn't think this was a conversation he'd be able to have uncaffeinated.

“But like I was saying,” Edvald repeated (for what felt like the tenth time but was probably only the third), “if the Rebel Alliance started launching unwinable campaigns against the Empire, eventually the masses would come to your side. If enough rebels died people would see how wrong the Empire truly is.”

 _If enough rebels died_ , Cassian thought, _the Empire would win the war._

He almost said it out loud. But he stopped himself. He needed to keep Edvald on his side – _the Alliance_ needed to keep Edvald on their side. So instead he nodded and said “Thank you for everything, Edvald. I really must be going.”

“Did I say something wrong?” Edvald looked crestfallen.

“No, no.” Cassian dredged up a smile from what felt like the farthest reaches of his soul (where it had probably been hiding from the onslaught of Edvald's opinions). “But time waits for no one.”

 _How dare you_ , Cassian thought, _how dare you think you can dictate to us how we should live and how we should die._

“Well, you and yours are always welcome.”

Cassian nodded in response, relieved to see the familiar figure of Kay looming in the doorway.

_I believe you. I believe we are always welcome. And we will be welcome right up until the point that our tactics no longer mesh with your armchair strategies. And then you will turn on us and call us ungrateful._

_I cannot trust you. I will not trust you. I will not suggest to my soldiers that they trust you. I won't suggest that they refuse your hospitality, either. Because we can't afford to turn that down. But I will warn them about you._

Cassian shifted his bag so that it sat a bit more comfortably on his bruised shoulder, waved to Edvald, and followed Kay out into the morning light.

 

**2\. The Operative**

Cassian was pretty sure that Lero didn't understand how fake dating worked.

He'd done this before with other operatives when they needed to blend in and it had always been pretty straightforward: lots of PDA, talk about innocuous subjects that interested them both (books or cooking were good bets), smile a lot. Not hard.

Lero, it seemed, hadn't gotten the memo. 

“I love men from Fest,” Lero said. "It's such an exotic place. And you've been through so much ..." he trailed off, as though the tragic past he'd constructed for Cassian was the most appealing part of his personality.

“Thank you,” Cassian deadpanned, clinging to a last vestige of hope that Lero was joking and also that he would stop.

“Would you say something in Festan to me?”

The Festan for _shut up_ came to Cassian unbidden. Instead he whispered in Basic “Our target just arrived. Two tables down to your left.”

 _Thank Force_.

Then before he could stop himself he added “I'd have told you in Festan, but I don't think you speak it.”

He hoped Lero would still have his back if this operation went sideways.

 

**3\. The Politician**

Cicadas buzzed in the medbay courtyard. Cassian pulled his breath in and out. He could smell flowers blooming somewhere beyond the open window.

Councilor Mothma, he thought, seemed intent on delivering a eulogy for him while he was still alive. What was more, she seemed intent on delivering it _to him_.

On the whole, he'd preferred the clipped tones of the nurse who had just informed him that the amount of pain he was presently in was going to be a constant in his life for, well, for the foreseeable future.

Manageable, of course, with medication and exercise, but a constant.

Nerve damage she had said, as though the diagnosis bored her a bit. Apparently his fall in the Scarif data tower had done him no favors. He wasn't really surprised. And he'd preferred her bored expression to the Councilor's overwhelming sympathy.

“The sacrifices you have made for the Rebellion,” Councilor Mothma was saying, “so that others might have a chance at freedom...”

Eventually her sentences began to blur together somewhat. He was more out of it than he had originally thought.

_And his words to Jyn Erso after Eadu came back to him suddenly - “you're in shock” - Jyn, Bodhi, Chirrut, Baze, Corporal Tonc – they'd all made it. Somehow. Force, somehow they'd made it. And somehow that made it all so much better. He had a momentary vision of Bodhi's huge brown eyes that made his chest tighten and his stomach flip in a way that had nothing to do with his injuries. He wanted to laugh, but that would probably be impolite to the Councilor…_

Oh, the Councilor. She was still speaking to him.

And he was still having some trouble parsing her words. But he got the gist of it: he was broken, broken, broken, broken – and what sort of life would a person like him have, so traumatized and so hurt, even if they should win the war?

Depressing stuff. And, apparently, the Councilor eventually realized that she was having a negative effect on morale because she came to a halt with “Well, I should let you rest.”

“Thank you for your visit, Councilor,” Cassian said as she left the room – because what else was he supposed to say?

Once he was alone, Cassian counted his breaths and tried to get ahold of his thoughts – tried to get a handle on the pain that was making him dizzy, making him want to crawl out of his skin.

A breeze pushed at the curtains, bringing again the scent of flowers. There was a knock at the door. General Draven.

“General.” Cassian tried to sit up. “Please come in.”

“At ease. At ease, Captain. Please.” Draven planted himself awkwardly next to the bed with his hands clasped behind his back. He looked like he wanted to talk. He looked like he wanted to bolt.

“I came to apologize, Captain. Ordering Galen Erso's assassination was a mistake. I made the wrong call.”

Draven looked tired, Cassian thought. So tired. “General, with respect, you made _a call_. Under difficult and uncertain circumstances with incomplete information. I respect you for it. I'm not looking to shift any responsibility...”

“And I respect the decisions you make in the field, Captain. Perhaps, when you are feeling better, we should have a discussion about you working more independently."

Cassian was still feeling dizzy. He closed his eyes briefly. It didn't help. “Thank you, sir. If my injuries permit it.”

The lines around Draven's mouth seemed to chisel themselves a little deeper. “I'm planning to write Jyn Erso a letter.”

“I think she might stay with us.”

“Good.” Draven shifted his weight side to side. Cleared his throat. “Captain, Mon Mothma … I want you to know. She's been with us since the beginning. She takes risks. But she did not grow up in this movement. She's not … When I was eighteen years old, I was injured in a crash. My injuries still hurt me every day. They limit the work I can do. But there is still beauty, joy, meaning... My life is not so dark, despite the darkness in it. I wanted you to know. None of us is so very hopeless.”

“General...” Cassian knew his eyes were comically wide. Draven made it a point never to lie to his operatives - never, ever, ever. No matter how bleak the situation, no matter how painful the facts, Draven would not lie. Cassian had always taken comfort in that - doubly so now. He sighed and felt himself relax into the mattress. The pain retreated just a little bit.

Draven met Cassian's eyes for a long moment. “We are with you, Captain. Every step of the way.”

 

**4\. The Writers**

It was 4 am and Cassian didn't expect to encounter anyone in the Yavin rec-room. But he'd just gotten back from a dead-drop and was simultaneously too tired and too alert to sleep - no harm in reading in the rec for a while (or as Kay had suggested witheringly - falling asleep in an uncomfortable position in the rec then startling himself by dropping his book on his face - "that only happened once, Kay").

But the rec was not empty. Instead it contained General Hera Syndulla enthusiastically cursing out a holoprojector in multiple Galactic languages. The projector, oblivious, was playing sad music and the credits to some holo or other.

"Hera," it was a testament to how comfortable Cassian felt in Hera's company that he didn't automatically address her as General Syndulla - they'd known each other since the early days of Fulcrum and their interactions had the easy way of two people who'd gone through hell together, "what did that projector do to you?"

Hera switched off the offending projector and turned to face Cassian with a slightly damp smile. "Cassian! Congratulations on your promotion, _Major._ "

"Thank you." Cassian limped over to the couch nearest Hera and dropped down onto it. "Are you all right?"

Hera sighed, swiping at her eyes. "I'm fine. This silly holo just got to me. And I wasn't expecting company." She sniffed, then grinned a little as Cassian handed her a handkerchief. 

"Particularly terrible one?" Recent Rebellion successes had distracted the Empire and caused a small cinematic renaissance on worlds with little Imperial control. Overwhelmed and understaffed censorship boards meant more and more independent holos, quite a few of which made their way into the hands of Alliance troops. Art was good for morale, it seemed. Some of the holos were gorgeous. Some were objectively awful (and so, so fun to mock). And some were just guilty pleasures. Rogue Squadron made it a point to watch _All My Younglings_  together regularly.

"No. No." Hera looked a little embarrassed. Then she screwed her eyes shut and when she opened them again she looked furious. "It was good until ... Force, Cassian, my people are suffering under the Empire. And it feels good, you know, it feels really good to see Twi'leks as heroes in holodramas. Like, look! We exist! We exist! We are still here. And then, of course, we're killed off by the end of the holo. As though happy endings are not for us. Stories can be so cruel."

Cassian felt like a bucket of cold water had been dumped over his head. He knew, of course, that he was the very picture of a villain in Imperial produced holos. He was a spy with dark features, a slim build, an accent, and (post-Scarif) a disability. But that was the cinema of the enemy and he had always been slightly proud of his villain status. This was different. Hera had watched a holo produced by people who claimed to support her, who promised her a place in the stories they told, then retracted it at the last minute. Stories could be so cruel. 

"Hera, that's awful. What can I do?"

"Ah - not much, I don't think, really. But sit with me for a while and let's catch up? I have a pot of tea that I don't want to drink all by myself. It's better shared."

"I'll get cups." Cassian made his way over to the rec cupboards and when he returned Hera had retrieved the teapot from where it had been steeping on the counter and was checking the strength of the tea.

"Someday the resilience of your people will be the centerpiece of so many stories," Cassian said as he lowered himself back on to the couch, being careful not to drop the cups.

Hera gave him an angry look over the steaming teapot. "We already have our own stories about our resilience. Representation would feel good but we don't need your acknowledgement of us in order to be people.

Fuck.

"Hera, I'm sorry. It was fucked up I didn't consider that."

"Apology accepted. You weren't ever taught to."

"I don't think I've read any stories by Twi'lek authors, but I'd like to. I have some time between missions. I'll do some research."

Something in Hera's shoulders seemed to relax as she poured the tea. "I've got some favorite stories on my holopad that I can transfer to yours."

 

**5\. The Recruit**

Deep breaths, Cassian thought as he completed post flight checks with Kay and listened with growing anger to their new recruit. Deep. Breaths.

The recruit was a student and political organizer from the University of Pasher. He'd functioned with nominal Rebellion support and, facing an imminent Imperial crackdown,  had requested an extraction and the chance to fully join up. Cue Cassian flying in to meet him at a safehouse before ferrying him to Hoth. The extraction had gone relatively smoothly. Then the recruit struck up a conversation. 

As far as Cassian knew, there had never been a verified report of humanoid spontaneous combustion. But there was a first time for everything, right? Maybe Cassian would be that first time. (“Sir”, Kay would report to General Draven, “the Major had to deal with one too many rude people and went up in flames”). What a way to go.

No. No. Deep breaths. Don't go off on this kid (Kid – what was he 20? Cassian was 27. But still). Express your displeasure politely, Andor, you can do it. Force, he's probably nervous and you still need to give him his orientation. Plus, he just shared a long space flight with Kay and that tends to rattle people. Deep breaths.

“I'd prefer it if you didn't say those things about Fest,” Cassian said. There. Done. Not so hard. Cassian was proud of his restraint.

“Oh, I'm sorry. I suppose that didn't sound great.” The recruit's freckled face was screwed up in a mixture of worry and concentration – he looked, for all the world, like a dog trying to navigate a flight of stairs. “I – just – with all those children joining the rebellion so early, it can't be great. They're probably pretty messed up, you know? Some of them.”

On second thought, perhaps he'd been too restrained. But that didn't matter now because Cassian was done. “Keep digging,” he suggested, “you'll probably hit bottom eventually.” Then he turned on his heel and exited the U-Wing without a glance over his shoulder.

Let someone else give this kid his official orientation. Let someone else do it because Cassian was done. Kay would make sure he didn't do anything stupid till then. Hell, maybe Kay would even get the kid settled. Probably not. But maybe.

The hangar was filled with the quiet, focused activity of pilots repairing ships. Cassian noted with a huff of distracted amusement that the Millenium Falcon was _still_ being repaired. His back hurt. And his legs hurt. And his arm hurt and his … well, actually everything hurt. _Pretty messed up_. The words replayed themselves in his head – that hurt too.

The training rooms had always been Cassian's refuge. He stretched, letting his mind settle into the familiar movements. Away from...well, away from everything for a while.

_Pretty messed up._

As far back in his childhood as Cassian could remember, his mother had played a game with him. It was called 'those are the rules'. While making food in the kitchen, she would say, with mock seriousness, something like “You don't get cake. Only I get cake.” And when he laughed and asked her why she'd say, “Well, those are the rules.” He always protested “You just made that up now!” And she'd wink, as she gave him his slice of cake, and tell him “That's how rules work – rules are made by people and many people only make rules to benefit themselves.”

“Like the Empire?” he'd ask her.

“Yes. Like the Empire.”

When Cassian was six, she put him to work spying on the parents of his friends. He would go through their things during playdates, learning what he could about the ones who worked for the Empire.

It worked well right up until he got caught. And –  _No! He wasn't going to think about that now._

Sometimes remembering felt like a punch to the gut. So Cassian shook his head and pulled himself out of his memories.

Then he finished stretching and started to shadow box.

His childhood was pretty messed up but it was _his_ – his to define. His to mourn and to cherish.

Someday, perhaps, children would grow up with all of that love of freedom and none of the trauma. He'd played 'those are the rules' with tiny, chubby Poe Dameron back when the Alliance had been stationed on Yavin IV. Poe had loved it, squealing with delight as Shara looked on.

Cassian was wiping his face and putting away the last of the equipment when Bodhi walked into the training room, his QT-9 therapy droid making burbling noises as it trailed behind him.

Bodhi made Cassian feel ... _things_.  Cassian knew and respected a number of Imperial defectors. But he felt uncomfortable around most of them. There was too wide a gulf of experience to bridge - nearly no common frame of reference on which to piece together a friendship. That had never been a problem with Bodhi.

Perhaps it was the fact that Bodhi had grown up in occupied NiJedha that allowed for their connection. Or ... no, it was more than that. Cassian had been born into the fight. Bodhi made a flying leap towards it, suffered torture, the loss of his city, and blast injuries, then decided to stay and keep fighting. To put it succinctly - holy shit.

And ... Bodhi didn't treat Cassian the way the other defectors did - as though he were a wild animal or some fragile thing made of glass - too dangerous, too fierce, too likely to shatter to befriend.

Plus (ahhh - embarrassingly) Bodhi was ... Bodhi ... Bodhi was _extremely good looking_.

_Distractingly, annoyingly good looking.  
_

It dawned on Cassian that he was staring. With his mouth open. _Shit. Shit. Shit. Fuccccck shit shit shit._ “Bodhi, hi! I was just finishing up, but did you want a sparring partner?”

Bodhi's eyes were sad but his smile was a soft, quick thing. “Thanks, but no. I think I just need a little time to …” He waved his hands around instead of finishing the sentence.  QT-9 cooed softly.

“Okay, sure. I often come in here when I need some time. But if you ever do want a training partner, let me know, eh?”

"I might take you up on that."

"Anytime. I mean it." It was horribly true. Bodhi could wake Cassian up in the middle of the night and ask him to hold a kick shield so that Bodhi could practice roundhouse kicks and Cassian would do it. 

"Chirrut has been teaching me some stuff. Like when I'm down, he suggested imagining punching _through a problem._ Not ... not a person, of course. But through whatever is holding me back".

Cassian, who had spent plenty of training sessions imagining punching specific people, looked at Bodhi's sincere expression and ... Bodhi was going to be the death of him. He could feel himself starting to blush.

"Wellifyoueverwantthattrainingpartnerletmeknow, yeah?" Cassian fled.

It had been a long, exhausting day. Cassian was in no shape to deal with Bodhi Rook and his dreadfully, horrendously beautiful face.

But as it turned out, the following day, Bodhi did want a training partner. And the day after that, too. And …

 

**6\. The Pilot**

Sunrise was turning the ice of Echo Base to glass and gold as Cassian and Bodhi walked to the mess for breakfast.

They got caf and talked about language. Meaning. Culture. Home. Cassian got flustered when he found out Bodhi's name meant 'enlightened one'. How could he express how perfect that was without coming on too strong? This was all new and delicate and--

“Can I ask - does the symbol on your necklace mean something?”

“Hmm?”

“I mean, you know, your necklace. Where does it come from? Does it mean something? If you're okay with my asking ... ” Bodhi's big, serious eyes locked onto Cassian's from over the rim of his mug. The steam rising from his caf wreathed his face in a way that was damn distracting. But Cassian made an effort to pull himself together.

“Oh. Ah – it means – it's the word for 'fire starter' but it also means 'tomorrow, or the future'. My parents gave it to me. They didn't believe in subtlety nearly as much as they believed in revolution.”

Bodhi smiled the honest smile of a gambler who knew he had a winning hand, who knew he no longer needed to bluff. “It suits you.”

 

**Coda: The Politician**

Mon Mothma rolled out her shoulders and blew on her tea to cool it. Then she fished her reading glasses out of her desk drawer, settled her shawl more securely around her shoulders, and got to work. Spread out on her desk were a series of books, gifts from Leia after Mon had confided that she felt somewhat ill-informed and at a loss. Leia had inherited Bail's practicality, it seemed.

Hmmm. Where to start? Mon scanned the titles and decided on _Disability Justice and Outer Rim Identity: A Reader_. That seemed as good a place to begin as any.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Sometimes self-care is fighting Lucas Films in an underpass at 3 am.
> 
> Cassian's necklace is based on a Victor Hugo quote “if you want to know what progress is, call it revolution; if you want to know what revolution is, call it tomorrow.” 
> 
> QT-9 therapy droids appear in the Star Wars novel Aftermath: Life Debt. I did not make them up. Even I am not so cheezy as to have come up with that name (I love them so much). 
> 
> Rogue Squadron's fondness for soap operas is based on civil rights icon (he litigated Brown v. Board of Education prior to becoming a judge) and first Black US Supreme Court Justice Thurgood Marshall who was reportedly very fond of soaps.
> 
> This fic owes so much to the Cassian/Bodhi fan community on Tumblr and to friends who encouraged, aided, abetted and conspired.


End file.
